Aloud the fpeechlefs fuppliant cries, The woes that in it's bofom rife, That infant, whofe advancing hour (Sad proof of Sin's tranfmiffive pow'r!) That infant, Lord! am I, A childhood yet my thoughts confefs, Author of Good! to thee I turn: Thy ever wakeful eye Alone can all my wants difcern, O let thy fear within me dwell, And O! by Error's force fubdu'd, Not to my wish, but to my want, Unafk'd, what good thou knoweft grant; MERRICK. INSCRIPTION FOR A RILL. AH! not in vain we filver rills From moffy fountains flow: Pictur❜d in us, may mortals fee, In our inceffant ftrife, The toils of drear obfcurity The toils of mortal life. Faft, faft we run, ne'er to return, Thy fate with us, O man then mourn, Tho' fretting on, our courfe we gain, Like poor contentious pride, Yet all our toil is not in vain, From us, lone travellers of the dale, How e'en the lowlieft in life's vale May aid the common good! BIDLAKE, HYMN FOR MORNING, SEE the ftar that leads the day, To make the fhades of darkness go From an heart fincere and found Wing'd with heat to reach the sky. The facred spirit so may rest, And kindly clear it all within, From darker blemishes of fin And fhine with grace, until we view See the day that dawns in air, And whether, with a final repaft, We break the fober morning fast; Or in our thoughts and houses lay O, Giver of Eternal Bliss, Grant, heavenly Father! grant me this; Grant it all, as well as me, All whofe hearts are fix'd on thee; Who revere thy son above, Who thy facred spirit love. PARNELL, HYMN FOR NOON. THE fun is fwiftly mounted high, Its beams with force and glory beat, Father! alfo with thy fire Warm the cold, the dead defire, |